


Warm and Dark and Sweet

by nightfever (drfeels)



Category: Saint Seiya
Genre: Anal Sex, Fingering, M/M, Oral Sex, Threesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-26
Updated: 2018-01-26
Packaged: 2019-03-09 21:21:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13490031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drfeels/pseuds/nightfever
Summary: Now age 23 and training to inherit the Virgo Cloth at Sanctuary, a slightly lonely Shun has begun a friendship with Aphrodite, who is currently in a long-term relationship with Saga. However, Aphrodite has proposed something more, and Shun has become a fixture in their bed, where he finds a strange sense of comfort and belonging. Largely PWP.





	Warm and Dark and Sweet

**Author's Note:**

> This is a strange and largely self-indulgent type of fic, but it's the one we deserve. Mostly you. Happy Birthday. What do you get the person who has everything? An asston of porn, I guess. "If there is such a thing as too much porn, this is it."
> 
> This idea came about after some playing around with scenarios where Aphrodite and Saga are involved and very much in love, but Aphrodite enjoys bringing other boys into their bed, and Saga doesn't object but rather, finds enjoyment in it as a couple. And somehow after sparking up a relationship with Shun, Aphrodite found himself drawn to him and wanting to invite him into enjoying himself with him and Saga. So as such, something like this fic was born. The title refers to the scent of myrrh, which I think would be the scent of Saga, but it also is the general feeling of everything in the fic, somehow.

Aphrodite’s hands are soft and slender, nails filed into neat points and painted delicate, shiny shell-pink. For all the time he spends in the garden there’s no calluses, no small pricks and cuts from thorns and weed-pulling. Just milk-white, smooth, fingers quick and deft.

“The secret,” he says, with a smile, “is gloves, plain and simple.”

He has an extra pair that now are silently known to Shun as “your gloves”, because that was what Aphrodite said, handing them over. “These can be yours.” They’re a bright pink color, similar to that of the Andromeda cloth, and he half-wonders why Aphrodite would even own a pair this color, a color he doesn’t seem to own anything else of. 

The thought occurs to him that maybe this is secretly intended as a gift for him, something Aphrodite had bought but then decided to press upon him without fanfare. His heart sparks at that, and it takes the tops of his cheeks tingle and flush, and he can’t help but smile, a wide grin that extends to his eyes. 

“Shun,” Aphrodite says, peering out from under his wide-brimmed sun hat, “would you check wounds on the frankincense tree?”

He points to the corner of the garden, though Shun still remembers which tree he means, small but thick and thorny. There are parts on the trunk where Aphrodite has gently whittled the bark away, letting the tree heal and seal itself over with resin to be collected when it dries. 

He’d been under the impression, his first time invited in to the garden, that Aphrodite only grew roses. That could not have been farther from the truth. It seemed the only plants in Sanctuary not under his care were the Sal trees in the garden of Virgo. Aphrodite had taken him down the path, pointing out flowers and fruits and a sakura tree, already bloomed and void of petals.

In the far corner were trees that seemed out of their environment, entirely displaced but still somehow thriving.

“They shouldn’t be able to grow here,” Aphrodite says with pride, “but they’ve thrived for generations under our care.”

“Our?”

“Pisces,” Aphrodite had said. “The temples are not just gates of protection, Shun. Each Saint has a role to fulfil. This is Pisces. Fruit and fertility, plants for salves and medicine, flowers for honey, my roses for protection.” He had bent over the hibiscus bush between them, the flush of red from his lips seeping through the thick, pastel coating of lipstick. 

The protection of roses. White roses, which he’d once known too well. Aphrodite had levelled his gaze to meet Shun’s then, lashes casting long shadows on the tops of his cheeks.

“Do you have a favorite?” he’d asked.

“Hydrangeas.”

And Aphrodite had just smiled. “I have plenty of those.”

At that moment, back then, something passed between them, something unspoken, and he’d been unable to say what. Now, he thinks maybe he understands. That had been a beginning.

He scrapes a bit of the frankincense off the tree. It’s still sticky and white, still drying. He reaches out with his fingers to touch it, to test the texture. It’s not anything like the ones Aphrodite had shown him once, pale yellow pieces sitting in a metal bowl like jewels.

“They’re called tears,” he’d been told. “These are for burning up in Athena’s chamber, and on Star Hill.”

“Saori’s?”

“For her star-reading. They’ve burned it up there since the Age of Myth.”

“Ah, I hadn’t known.”

“Have you smelled it?” Aphrodite had taken one small piece from the bowl and handed it to him. “Tonight,” he’d said. “Burn it on a piece of charcoal. I want to know if you like it.”

Aphrodite is always giving him things, small things like tears of frankincense and jars of fresh aloe leaves, and slowly it’s been building. He looks down at the gloves.

Back then, holding that small jewel-like tear in his fingers, searing it on a burning coal from the kitchen stove, he hadn’t quite known yet what to call it. This feeling of friendship, affection, of being doted on in a way he hadn’t by anyone in a long time, but at the same time in a way that felt so vastly different from being doted on as a child.

He picks up the metal scraper and slides his now not-quite-so-brand-new gloves over his palms and sets to work pruning the begonias the next section over, like Aphrodite had taught him. Careful precision, turning over leaves and carefully weaving his fingers through the stems. They’ve grown thin and green and are beginning to droop in their quest for the sun. Reaching, reaching so high they’re wearing themselves thin.

“Shun!”

It’s when the sun begins to shrink towards the horizon he hears Aphrodite’s voice, calling him from down the path. He can see the large brim of his sunhat just over the rows of green, and he follows that gentle calling of his name to it.

Aphrodite pats the grass next to him by a swath of orchids, and he kneels down. He extends his hand, and Aphrodite inspects the still-sticky tears on his fingertips, milky white. The sharp, peppery smell wafts as he bends Shun’s fingers up, touches one of his finely-kept nails to the residue.

“Mmm, not quite dried yet,” he says softly. 

He reaches into one of the pockets of his gardening aprons and produces something that looks like a tear, but deeper in color, and with a scent that’s dark and sweet. “I had forgotten last time,” he says, with a smile reminding Shun briefly of what exactly he means by ‘last time’. “Myrrh, for you to smoulder. For your meditation. If it helps, I can give you more.”

“Thank you,” he says, and he tucks it into the pocket of his jeans. “You’re always giving me so many things,” he laughs. “It’s kind of you.”

“You’ve given me more.”

Aphrodite’s eyes are clear as he says that, and he feels himself heat under that gaze, a blush that flushes all the way up to the tips of his ears and the back of his neck. He hadn’t known back then, no, what this was, but now he does. Aphrodite isn’t spoiling him, rather, but sharing small pieces of himself, things he likes, in hopes they’ll serve. It’s an exchange of himself for part of Shun, his company, his presence.

It had taken so long to ground that thought, to understand it, until one day Aphrodite had asked, very frankly and suddenly, for the chance to kiss.

He had not said no, because there wasn’t a single part of him that wanted to. 

Aphrodite still has his fingers held tightly, and there is that look in his eyes, a sweet and gentle look that Shun returns. Another silent exchange between them.

He bends, presses a kiss to Shun’s knuckles, leaves behind a pastel lipstick stain across them, one that breaks into nonsense shapes when Shun flexes his fingers and turns them to lace them with Aphrodite’s own, and Aphrodite pushes back his sunhat and leans in for a proper kiss, warmer and hotter than the searing light of the setting sun sinking beyond the horizon, and as Shun leans into Aphrodite leans back harder and they tumble over onto the grass, just in time to hear heavy footsteps on the gravel path coming towards them.

Aphrodite must have some sort of internal clock for this by now, something that stirs in his body and blooms, like how a moonflower knows the night just by light or lack thereof, Aphrodite’s begun to grow a sense for the time of early evening when meetings are dismissed and Saga comes down the beaten path. Always, always around this time Shun finds Aphrodite leaning over him, long-lashed and flushed, as though his body can tell soon Saga will be upon them and they’ll be able to tangle themselves up as three.

Saga, unlike them, is still in his Cloth, stepping across the pebbles with heeled boots that shine gold even underneath the dust and dirt of the day. He is smiling, just slightly, and he bends to kiss Aphrodite first, who puts his arms around Saga’s neck and very nearly pulls him down to the ground with him. 

And then, with a sparking in his chest as Saga stoops low, Saga meets his lips too. Saga is soft and his hair smells warm and dark like the heavy smoke of the incense they burn in the papal chambers and he tangles gold-gloved hands in Shun’s soft green curls and finally is brought to his knees by them both, Aphrodite’s lips leaving quick kisses at his temple and Shun curling underneath him, white t-shirt slightly riding up over his hipbones and hair mussed, the tips of his fingers still sticky and smelling like frankincense tears.

When they break to breathe Aphrodite pulls Saga by the shoulder for another kiss, his lipstick patchy and almost entirely kissed off across the side of Saga’s face, from temple to jaw, and his lips underneath are the color of his prized roses, a garish red.

“Saga,” he says, breathlessly. His gaze flickers over to Shun’s, lying on the grass next to him, before he wraps his arms tighter around Saga’s neck and murmurs against his jaw, “We should clean ourselves up.”

It’s mischevious, that, because Shun knows exactly what Aphrodite is trying to say, and a hot thrill shoots down his spine and his body prickles from the top of his scalp to the bottoms of his heels.

“Shun,” Saga says, and it’s half a question, one to which he smiles in reply as he sits himself up.

“I could use a bath.”

Aphrodite’s lashes flutter and he kneels, then stands, offering a hand to pull Shun up with him, which he takes. “Well then,” he says, and he presses a kiss to Shun’s cheekbone, tangles their fingers together and pulls him along, glancing back at Saga with a half-lidded gaze. “You know my bath is big enough for three.”

“I’ll be there as soon as I’m fit,” Saga says, and as they make their way into the Pisces temple Saga stands off to the side in the foyer and removes his Cloth, bit by bit, rebuilding the Twins in their four-armed glory while Aphrodite takes Shun’s arm and pulls him through the door into the Pisces temple bathroom.

It’s large and elegant, tall ceiling and white stone walls with an in-floor bathtub the size of a small pool in the center, fitting for a temple full of fountains and waterfalls.

Aphrodite is instantly in the cupboards, sifting through glass phials and decanters of oils and tinctures. The spout is already pouring steaming water, and the humidity is making Shun’s clothes stick to his skin. He begins to lift the edge of his t-shirt to peel it off, but Aphrodite catches him from the mirror.

“Not yet.” 

His voice echoes and bounces sharply off the stone tiles. He kneels next to the tub and begins pouring in an assortment of oils in different ratios in a way that seems like chaos but Shun knows is more than calculated. He anoints himself with one of them before closing the lid back on, and when he slips out of his pants he motions for Shun to come, has him sit on the edge of the tub with him. 

He smells warm and dark, something familiar but something he also can’t place. He’s about to stop for a moment to think on that but his thoughts turn blank for a split second as Aphrodite catches his bottom lip between his own, looks at him with heavy-lidded eyes and slips and slender, soft hand under the edge of Shun’s white t-shirt. 

The thought he was chasing vanishes, pulling its tail out of sight, and he lets it go as Aphrodite slides warm, oil-slick fingers up over his ribs, around their curve to his nipple, which he circles slowly and then lightly pinches at the same time he moves to gently bite his lower lip between his teeth, pulls back steadily. There’s something delicious about it that makes Shun curl into it for more. Aphrodite’s fingers circle again on his chest and find a certain spot on the edge of his nipple that gives him a short, sweet chill all over his body. He sighs a heavy breath into Aphrodite’s mouth, against his waiting tongue that slips against Shun’s, traces the curve of his top lip and curls over his teeth. Aphrodite’s other hand pulls him closer, tighter, pushes him down against the tile and brings his shirt up over his head and then his mouth is there against Shun’s chest, hot and slick and kissing in a way that makes him sigh again. 

Dark blue strands come down to meet his chest, with Saga kneeling there at his shoulders, leaning over him, now out of his cloth and already out of his clothes, too. Saga’s arm reaches and he pulls Aphrodite from Shun’s chest, crushes him in a fierce and dizzy kiss before he lets him go and bends to Shun’s waiting mouth and Shun meets him, tangles his hands in Saga’s thick mane and pulls him down until Saga’s thin, firm mouth presses gently against his swollen lips. 

Saga kisses him lightly, softly, and even as he tries to hint he wants their lips to part with a flick of his tongue against Saga’s mouth, Saga doesn’t give, not yet. He pulls back and Shun realizes Aphrodite’s already got his belt undone and he himself is just as stark naked as Saga is now, with Shun the only one still half-clothed. He sits up and Aphrodite pulls his pants down in a fluid motion as he does and he kicks them off his feet, removes his socks and underwear to leave them on the edge of the bath.

Saga’s awaiting him as he slips in. 

The water is hot, perfumed, and Saga’s hand catches the back of his neck, cradles his head and he comes in for another kiss, hovers for a moment and Shun takes that moment to branch the gap and this time he is rewarded with the kiss he wants, deep and warm and sweet-scented and he tangles his hands in Saga’s hair again and pulls him closer, harder, and Aphrodite, having neatly folded their clothes, now slips in and cradles Saga from behind, curls his body so they’re skin to skin and his arm snakes around Saga’s waist, hidden from elbow down in the water and milky foam that’s floating on the surface, but the way Saga’s knees buckle slightly and he groans into Shun’s mouth, there is no question exactly where his fingers are.

Saga’s hands slide up his spine, pull him close, and then they snake down and cup his bottom and squeeze and knead and he can feel the friction of Saga’s shaking thigh between his legs, and he’s already half-hard but the way Saga is pressing he can feel himself getting harder. Saga’s tongue parts his lips and slips in and they entwine. Saga’s curls and slides against the inside of his lips and back to stroke the inside of Shun’s mouth in a way he’s learned makes him tremble, and before he knows it Saga is guiding him to lean against the stone wall of the bath because neither of them can control the trembling of their legs and when he hits the wall Aphrodite’s own thigh comes up to push the back of Saga’s and grinds it tighter, harder, against him and he cries out into Saga’s mouth and sinks slightly into the water.

Aphrodite is there at his shoulder to hold him tight, and one of his wet hands comes up and massages the top of Shun’s head lightly.

“What would you like?” he says, softly. 

His voice is close, too close. It makes him shiver, makes the blood rise so fast to his head that the room spins for a moment.

The choice is overwhelming, and he swallows hard. 

“Anything you’d like,” he says, and there’s a gleam in Aphrodite’s eye, because he can’t help where his gaze has drifted, towards Saga’s waistline, which is half-hidden in the gentle bobbing of the water, but Aphrodite follows his gaze and understands instantly, completely.

Aphrodite leans in, kisses the shell of his ear, and his breath tickles as he murmurs, “Maybe we should take a break,” and he weaves his hands further into the crown of Shun’s hair, musses it and his nails gently massage his scalp, “but keep yourself on edge.” He turns. “Saga,” he says, and there’s a slight command to it, “sit down.”

“Oh?”

“We’re going to bathe first,” Aphrodite says, and he’s on Saga’s lap in one fluid stride. He sits himself, straddles Saga’s thighs, and Shun can’t see his hands move but the way Saga shudders he can imagine the few teasing strokes he’s giving, begging Saga to bide his time. “Can you hold this for that long?”

Saga laughs and kisses at the hollow behind Aphrodite’s ear, his jaw, the muscular curve of his neck. “I have plenty of discipline.”

And then, suddenly, Aphrodite is laughing too, and he presses their foreheads together and they share that, a moment of intimacy just between them and Saga’s hand slides up to the base of Aphrodite’s skull and pulls him close for a quick kiss.

There is just the slightest sting of jealousy somewhere in his ribs at the sight of them, and it’s not even jealousy at the two of them and their coupling but the pang of something else, a longing for it, for someone to couple with him that way. It does not even have time to settle, because even if they seem in their own world, he is always pulled back in quickly. They do not forget him, but revel in the chances to bring him in with them, and Aphrodite’s smooth white hand is around his wrist and pulling him over.

“Help me wash this monster’s hair,” he’s laughing, “it’s too much.”

“I’m not cutting it.”

“I don’t want you to.” Aphrodite cups water in his hands and parts them over the crown of Saga’s head so the water trickles down, fat drops that roll against the sides of Saga’s cheeks and the back of his neck. “I love your hair,” he says, and there’s genuine affection in it as he runs his hands through the thick, slightly damp strands before scooping up another handful of water. “You could let me trim the split ends, though.”

“It’s fine how it is.”

Aphrodite ignores that. “Hand me the shampoo, please, that one, it’s a light blue,” he says, pointing, and he presses fingers to Saga’s forehead, trying to prompt him to lay back. “You need to submerge it, I’ll never get it all with just my hands, you know.”

He obeys and his hair unfurls against the foam, a deep blue against pale and milky. When he comes back up it hangs heavy on his head, the weight of all those wet strands that stick to his back and his arms and the side of his neck. Aphrodite wastes no time gathering them in his hands, and he takes the bottle from Shun, pops the stopper and pours a liberal amount onto his fingers.

For a moment he just stands there, uncertain if he should join, but Saga reaches out an arm, one that wraps around the back of his thighs and pulls him in. Saga’s forearm hits his knees and they give a little and he kneels next to them, the water just barely tickling the bottom of his ribs.

“Close your eyes.”

In the darkness there’s just the sound of slow-ebbing water, of skimming, and then Saga’s large hands come over his head and break and there’s warmth coursing down his scalp in thick streams, droplets hanging off the edge of his lashes when he opens his eyes and Saga wipes some foam away from his brow with a thumb. Then he steals one kiss, two, three.

He can feel the heavy, syrupy shampoo on his scalp and dripping down the back of his neck and Saga’s hands muss his hair and lather him. Aphrodite’s moved on to his own hair, and Saga steals another kiss before he dips his head back and rinses clean. He closes his eyes and follows suit, rinses himself, takes a moment to hold his breath and enjoy the sensation of submerging fully before he comes back up and wipes the droplets from his lashes on the back of his hand, slicks his wet bangs back over his head.

Aphrodite pulls a thick, white bar of soap from a dish just beyond Saga’s head. He holds it out to Shun, shell-pink nails glistening against the stark color of it, offering. A boon.

“You don’t have to,” Aphrodite says gently, “but if you would. I want you to.” 

Want. That’s the word that always starts a chill in him, when Aphrodite does not just ask or offer but when he specifically says how he wants, he wants Shun to touch him and he wants to touch Shun back, to give. Mutual exchange.

He inhales deeply. The humid air of the bath sticks in his lungs and he tastes the perfumed oil mixed with the water on his tongue. It’s bitter, but it smells like Aphrodite, and the scent is surrounding him. Shell-pink nails press the white bar into his palm and Aphrodite turns, gathers his curls in his hands and offers first his back, milk-white and soft but not without scars. 

Not just beauty, no, but beauty and power. These are a testament to that, a testament that beauty is not only something held by those unblemished. 

He starts there, along the curve of his strong shoulder-blades, the muscular expanse of his back, down his firm and straight spine. Aphrodite turns and he skims that chest, firm and strong, flushed pink by the heat, then down, down a strong stomach that twists and flexes under the pads of his fingers, and the soap slips under his grasp as Aphrodite sharply breathes in.

The scent is getting stronger, sweet and heady and it makes him dizzy, but not as dizzy as he feels when he follows his gaze down, down. Aphrodite’s waist disappears under the water, and he slowly guides Shun’s hand down there, down, and the anticipation grows as he understands. He feels weak and his head spins and his hand meets with Aphrodite’s slick half-hardness and he braces himself against it, takes it in his palm and gently rolls his thumb over the head, watching as Aphrodite’s gentle smile wavers and he sighs softly. His wet curls stick to Shun’s skin as he buries his head against his shoulder, rest his lips against the curve of his neck. He can feel it, there, the pulse rising within him, the heat.

Aphrodite’s mouth opens against the damp skin, and his tongue swirls and dips into the hollow of Shun’s collarbone. He’s tasting him, tasting him further as he slides his lips up Shun’s neck and one of his hands comes down and circles Shun’s own, pries his fingers open so it blooms and guides him down so his palm steadies flat between Aphrodite’s legs and his fingers are poised right at the place where Aphrodite opens, and he breathes against Shun’s ear.

“Prepare me,” he murmurs. “Then I’ll do it for you.”

His throat grows so heavy with an overwhelming wash of desire that it sticks and he finds it hard to swallow but he does, he swallows down his dizziness, down towards the hot pit that’s set itself low in his stomach. Between his legs, something throbs as he presses two soap-slick fingers inside Aphrodite, and Aphrodite’s teeth against his neck gently bear down and he moans, a deep, hot sound that echoes off the stone walls. There’s the sound of a breath hitching and he can see it’s Saga, transfixed, watching Aphrodite as Shun presses in a third finger and he can feel Aphrodite stretching around him, and he feels something slide against his hand and he realizes it’s Aphrodite’s own, the edge of his fist, clenched around his erection, gently stroking himself. 

“Deeper,” Aphrodite pleads, and his words are muffled, near eaten up by the skin of Shun’s neck, “Slowly.”

“Alright,” he murmurs, and he presses in as Aphrodite breathes, slowly, hot breath he can feel ghosting against his neck.

Aphrodite’s stroking himself faster and feverishly kissing Shun’s throat, upward to the corner of his jaw, the soft, hollow spot under his ear, and then finally their lips meet and Aphrodite is fast with his tongue and kissing him deeply until finally Aphrodite’s hand catches his and pulls his fingers out slowly and he sighs into Shun’s lips, and Shun swallows it, takes it down with him into his belly. Down, deep down towards something burning, something white-hot and feverish.

“You now,” he says, the words spilling over his swollen, wet lips, and he begins the same way, taking the bar from Shun’s palm. His eyes glisten as he prods Shun to turn and he begins to trace Shun’s back with his fingers, aching and slow, every inch. 

His touch is delicate, just barely skimming Shun’s skin, until his hands reach around him to soap his chest and he presses a kiss to the nape of Shun’s neck and his finger circles Shun’s entrance, slowly. He can feel himself slowly give, lets Aphrodite take the weight of his body against his chest and he leans back and lets Aphrodite in, deep into himself, into something slick and hot and wanting.

His hands are still soft and quick and deft, as is the rest of him. His thigh finds itself between Shun’s legs, grinding up against his arousal, and one finger becomes two that press up and in and Aphrodite remembers exactly what spot he likes, something that makes his nerves tense and begins to burn his whole body in a warm, enveloping sweetness. Between his legs it throbs, it aches, and he’s dizzy, breathing feels too sweet, too hot, like everything is numb inside his throat.

Burning fingers stroke down his spine. He breathes deep. Three fingers now and he feels himself stretching and it aches in a sweet way, it always does, the way Aphrodite slowly opens him for Saga, who’s waiting, giving them this moment, this moment for Shun to be held in the cradle of Aphrodite’s shoulder, and when Aphrodite slips his fingers out he brings a hand around and circles his thumb around the tip of Shun’s erection, strokes quick fingers along the underside of it, cups it with one hand under and the other bringing him closer with full, fast strokes, until he feels his breath hitching. Then, Aphrodite’s hands halt, constrict and squeeze around him sharply and it slows the burning ache and his senses come back in a rush. 

His throat stops sticking and he swallows down and breathes in deep the heady scent of the floral shampoo and finds his bearings again. Aphrodite presses a kiss to his temple.

“Bed,” he murmurs, and makes his way to the edge of the tub, where Saga is already drying off, waiting for them. 

“Shun?”

“I’m almost done.”

He rinses the last of the soap from his skin and tries to shake himself from the daze of near-release in the slowly cooling water. He gives his wet hair one last dip and when he climbs out of the tub Saga hands him a large, soft white towel, embroidered in gold with the distinct H-shaped Pisces symbol, just like everything Aphrodite seems to own. He wraps his waist in it and, upon lowering his gaze to knot it, realizes Saga has not even bothered with one. 

His stomach drops in an instant, and he swallows a numb, sweet breath.

It’s not new, seeing Saga naked and aroused, but that doesn’t stop the surge of lust, the red-hot feeling that dips between his legs, because it’s not just Saga’s arousal, but the soft touch on his back as Saga gently guides him down the corridor to the bedroom, the way his thumb strokes at the top of Shun’s spine, fingers at his nape. He can feel the heat in those fingers, and when he glances up and meets Saga’s gaze, there’s gentleness there, but also desire, something he’s only learned now to recognize as hunger.

Saga has tried, now and then, to hide it, but it always comes through. In another time, it might have frightened him. But now it does nothing but bring about a thrill in him, the levelling of that gaze at his body.

He’s hungry, too.

Aphrodite’s lighting an oil lamp on the bedside table when they enter, the bed already turned down, covers neatly folded and resting at the foot of it. The air still smells faintly like smouldering matches as Shun perches himself on the edge of the mattress, and Aphrodite sits himself next to Saga, pulls at his hair and plaits it in neat strokes, so it hangs down his back in one long, damp braid.

“If I don’t do this now,” he says, “the bed will be a soaking mess by the time you’re done with it.”

Saga pulls it over his shoulder, admires the work for half a second. “It’ll never dry like this.”

“You can take it out when we’re done.” He presses a glass phial into Saga’s open palm. “Now,” he says, with a syrup-sweet voice, “you’re keeping us waiting.” 

Aphrodite’s hands slither over his shoulders and back and onto his chest, where he pulls him close, rests his chin in the curve of Shun’s shell-white shoulder. His lips press and kiss the pulse that runs up Shun’s neck, where his blood feels like it had been resting, slow and sluggish for the minutes after the bath but now it begins to simmer again, slowly, and then boil under the work of Aphrodite’s soft, hot tongue that traces it.

He’s pushed down against plush pillows, clean-smelling sheets, and Aphrodite’s lips kiss down his chest, over his collarbones and down the expanse of his ribs, and it tickles. He finds himself laughing and he trembles under Aphrodite’s breath, fingers that trace the curve of his hipbones and then there’s Aphrodite’s tongue, a tongue that sinks between his legs and sends hot flames licking at the soles of his feet, and he moans, softly, as Aphrodite swallows him for a few moments. The head of his length brushes the inside of Aphrodite’s mouth, against the silk-like flesh inside his cheeks. He writhes against the bedsheets, his nails dig half-moons against his palms and as he turns his head his eyes flicker open and Saga is kneeling there, next to his head, slicking his hands up with dark, amber-colored oil. 

Saga’s arousal is so near to him he can smell the thick scent of it, and when Aphrodite pulls up for air he finds himself bracing a palm against the bed and he twists his torso and plants his lips there, a kiss at the joint of Saga’s thigh, and then he nestles his mouth into the dark nest of curls there and grips the bottom of Saga’s shaft in his hand. Something in him wants to devour, and he tastes Saga, holds him against his tongue, feels him harden under his grip. He sucks at the fluid beading off the tip with swollen, red lips, and then pries himself from it to lick the whole length before he swallows it down again, firmly rubs what he cannot fit with deft, hot fingers, and when Saga groans loudly the arousal between his own legs swells and he feels Aphrodite’s hand tighten around him, trying to assure he does not spend himself before they even begin.

Hands thread in his hair and they’re Saga’s, leading him away, sliding his thick arousal out of his mouth and over his wet, red lips but he can’t help but plant one last, sloppy kiss on the head of it, gently stroke up it with his fingertips before he lets him go. He can still taste Saga on his tongue, thick and salty and bitter. 

Aphrodite cradles him in his arms, his back pressed snugly against Aphrodite’s chest and soft, pastel curls spill over his shoulders as Aphrodite bends and kisses the curve of neck and pulls Shun up, seats him in his lap. Then it’s Saga’s hands on his thighs, slick and shining with oil and the scent drifts up, not as heady as the perfumed bath but still that same warm sweetness that wraps around his head. And then sweeter, warmer as Saga brushes a thumb around his entrance, circles it, and Aphrodite’s lips kiss the lobe of his ear, and he’s whispering, whispering.

“Relax, Shun.”

He’s already soft and open but Saga’s fingers are thick and hot and wet and they slide in easy. His breath catches in his throat, and he breathes, slowly as Saga opens him up and teases him, sliding slick inside him, fingers curling, and he melts as Saga steadies his palm against his damp skin and curves his fingers and presses upward. There’s a sound rising from within him, from his throat, a moan, soft and low. Saga’s rubbing it over and over, pressing deep and then his other hand gently strokes Shun’s arousal once, twice.

“I think you’re ready.” Saga pulls his fingers out and he feels them replaced by something else, something that presses against the whole of his entrance at once. “I’m pushing in.”

“Yes,” he breathes, “go ahead.”

He opens his eyes, he has even forgot they’ve been closed in his attempt to relax, to lose himself, and when his lashes give way he sees nothing but Saga, Saga watching him carefully, Saga who steadies Shun’s shoulder with his palm and comes in for a slow, gentle kiss that turns hot and hungry, and when he pulls back, keeps Shun’s bottom lip between his for an aching second as he pulls away, he skims along it with his thumb. He kisses it, kisses the soft thumb pad and tastes the grooves of it, and then he feels himself slowly, melting again, relaxing and Saga is pressing in, deep and thick and he’s being spread wide, blooming. Aphrodite is rubbing his back in circles, taking Shun’s chin in his fingers and kissing him, licking at Shun’s swollen mouth with his tongue, tasting his tongue and teeth and the points of his canines.

Slow pressure builds low in his belly, the steady feeling of Saga pushing in deeper, deep until finally he groans because he can’t take anymore, and Saga listens, stops and pulls back slightly. “Too much?”

“No more,” he murmurs. His voice comes out hazy, a deep whisper from the back of his throat. “This is all I can take.”

“It’s almost all of it,” Aphrodite says. His fingers catch in the curls at the base of Shun’s neck as he brushes them to the side, kisses him at the nape. “Do you want to wait a moment?”

He swallows, his throat sticky and slightly dry, and he looks up through his lashes at Saga, gentle and hungry and patient, and when Saga glances back down at him he feels a sweet chill all the way down his spine, one that burns into his bones, coils and burrows deep in his belly, down to where Saga lays in him, where he waits.

“Move, please,” he breathes.

Saga brushes damp bangs off his forehead and takes Shun’s thighs in his hands. “I’ll go slow,” he murmurs, and he can already feel the slide of Saga inside him, slowly pulling out, and it already feels empty where he was.

Then he presses back in, slow again, controlled, and he feels himself revelling in the sensation of it, the sweet-hot feeling of Saga opening him again, sliding against his walls, thick and warm and the head of his arousal brushes up and he feels a sharp breath from his throat.

“Faster,” he murmurs after the second time Saga pushes in, “please, just a little faster.”

He can feel Aphrodite smile into the back of his shoulder through the kisses he’s peppering over his shoulder blades. One of his hands comes up, brushes Shun’s chest, circles his nipples slowly, achingly. It mirrors how it feels to have Saga inside him, aching and slow and then faster, enough that Saga’s nudging that spot inside him, and he feels the ache in him building, his hands claw and he finds his legs wrap around Saga’s waist and his hips tilt of their own accord, if only to change the angle because more, he needs more. The warmth and the friction can never be enough, his body is beginning to move on its own, just instinct as he can’t control his own throat and the voice it forces out.

Saga smells dark and sweet and his skin is burning hot and his lips sear as they meet and kiss deep and hungry and Aphrodite’s hand snakes between their bodies. A soft palm wraps around his length and Aphrodite strokes him as Saga continues to move inside him, enough that he feels Saga, too, is almost at his edge, and the thought of that, of Saga releasing into him, and the rubbing of Aphrodite’s slick hand and Saga’s pounding inside him come together in a way that bring him up and over and he’s moaning, his own voice is all he can hear in his ears, the breathy sound of him telling them he’s coming, soon, he’s coming, and then a moment later he feels himself release into Aphrodite’s palm, sticky and warm and white.

His whole body prickles. From the top of his skull down to his heels he can feel the prickling, the afterglow and the aftershocks between his legs that twitch sweetly. Saga untangles them, unwinds Shun’s legs and gently strokes up his stomach. It’s still hot and hard as he pulls out, and he’s about to open his mouth, to say something, but Saga presses a kiss to his brow.

“Thank you,” Saga murmurs. His voice is low, pleased. “Was it good?”

“Very.”

“I’m glad.”

Aphrodite lets him go too, and he pushes himself off Aphrodite’s lap and collapses back onto the pillows. His fingers brush the same embroidery as the bathroom towels, the small Pisces symbol done up in gold thread on the edges of all the pillows. Ah, there’s that feeling of heaviness, of sinking. The bed creaks, and next to him Aphrodite is pulling Saga over him to sit between his thighs and he reaches his arms up, up, wraps his legs around Saga’s waist and captures him in a lover’s embrace as Saga smoothly slides in bit by bit. There’s a sigh of satisfaction and a groan and the bed begins to shake.

Aphrodite reaches out a hand, and though he’s spent he can manage that so he reaches it, weaves their fingers together, strokes with his thumb. Shell-pink nails cut little half-moons into the tops of his knuckles as Aphrodite squeezes tighter, tighter. Saga’s name is on his lips, being breathed out over and over again, and when he comes he moans it, long and strained and his back arches and his hips swivel and tremble and Saga’s back is shaking too. 

“Aphrodite,” Saga breathes. 

The way he’s shaking and breathing heavy it comes out as four words instead of one, _Aph-ro-di-te_ , and there’s a satisfied smile on Aphrodite’s lips as he brushes Saga’s bangs off his forehead and ghosts his nails over the back of Saga’s neck. Then he leans over, kisses Shun’s knuckles, untangles their hands and presses a kiss to his palm and the tips of each of his fingers.

“Thank you,” he says, and it’s clearly meant for both of them, the way his eyes shine and glance back and forth, from Shun, spent and half-asleep, to Saga, great chest still heaving, now pulling out and wiping himself off with a towel from the bedside table. “I feel great. Better than great, even.” One of his hands come down into Shun’s now-dry curls, and he strokes at them, lightly draws his nails down Shun’s scalp. “Can you stay the night?”

He blinks for a moment, because his brain has fogged over. The words come out slowly, but finally he makes a coherent thought. “Yes,” he says, “as long as I leave before the sun rises.”

“Should I wake you?” Saga gently nudges him over, slides in the bed from the other side. “I have an early morning meeting. I’ll be up by dawn.”

“I’d appreciate it.”

“I’ll be lonely,” Aphrodite says, but there’s a smile curving the edges of his lips, and his tone is light. He rolls over, wraps Shun in his arms. “One of these days I’ll catch you both and make you spend all morning in bed with me.”

His lids are heavy. His consciousness starts to slip a bit, being held tightly against Aphrodite’s warm skin, surrounded by the scent of his perfume and the clean soap of the sheets. Then, from the other side, the blurry vision of Saga unknotting his braid. 

His thick hair gently unravels as he shakes it out. There’s that soft scent, like there had been earlier in the garden. The scent of the incense from the papal chambers, seeped so long into his hair and skin that it’s part of him, the dark, sweet scent of resins burning. It winds around him as Saga leans close. He reaches over and, with a quick turn of his fingers, snuffs out the oil lamp. 

The room goes dark in an instant. Aphrodite stirs, shifts his body and drapes a lazy arm over his waist, and then Saga on the other side, looping a thick, warm arm around his shoulders, pulling Shun’s head to his chest. There’s only a thin strand of the moon’s silver light peering through the gap in the curtains, lighting up the edges of Aphrodite’s silhouette.

A cold light against such warm skin. 

Aphrodite always does himself up in paints and pigments and powders, faces his opponents with such steeled conviction that long ago, if Shun had asked himself who he’d slain, he would have said a cold-hearted Saint, cruel and beautiful and without mercy. But now, having been pulled deeply into such an embrace, he can’t help but be thankful he did not die without truly knowing the truth. Now when Aphrodite talks, even cruelly, he can hear the gentleness in that voice, the syrup, the softness. Someone with so much love that it defies the vessel it’s in. 

He thinks about the frankincense tears, and the myrrh, the jar of aloe leaves. The kisses, both short and sweet and long and deep. Such a deep devotion to connecting, to sharing. The affection the thought brings up in him sends a rush through his body, from the inside out. He looks at Aphrodite, now seemingly fast asleep, long lashes casting dark shadows on his cheekbones, and a relaxed smile on his lips.

A cold light against such a warm person.

He shifts his head against Saga’s chest, and a hand comes down in his hair. Unlike Aphrodite, it seems he has not yet fallen into sleep yet either.

“Shun,” he whispers. Saga’s fingers gently run through his hair, over and over again, lulling him to relax, to let go. His lids begin to grow heavy. “How do you feel?”

“It’s good,” he whispers back. “Warm.”

“Does it hurt?”

“Not at all.”

Which is not entirely a lie. It’s sore, a dull ache, but not at all what he would consider pain. Compared to the things he’s been put through before, this only feels like inconvenience. 

Aphrodite turns in his sleep, arm slipping away from Shun’s waist and his exposed belly shows silver-white under the moonlight. Something about his skin seems to shimmer in the dark. Anything about him that’s visible shines, his polished nails, his gently parted lips, the just-visible edge of his teeth, the soft curls that fall over his cheek, disguising the hot flush staining it. His gently parted lips move, tongue curving against pearl-white teeth.

“Orchids,” he murmurs, and Shun can’t tell if it’s sleep-talk or if some part of Aphrodite has been lightly awoken by their brief conversation. “Tomorrow, I’ll cut you a bouquet of orchids.”

Saga reaches over, pulls the blanket up over that smooth white form, until it’s settled around Aphrodite’s shoulders.

“Goodnight,” he murmurs. It’s clearly for Aphrodite, an edge to it that sounds like Saga’s laughing slightly in the dark. Then, a smooth kiss to Shun’s own lips. “You have to come again, a morning when we don’t have to be up before the sun.”

“I will.”

“He’ll like that,” Saga says. “And I,” he pauses, and the silence in the dark is loud, but when he speaks his whisper sounds even louder. “I’ll like that too. I like you.”

_I like you._

It echoes in his head like church bells, ringing endlessly. He has heard it before from Aphrodite, countless times, countless professions of his love, his gratitude, but it has never been Saga, not yet. Not with those words.

“Thank you.” He doesn’t know what else to say to that, but there’s a deep, cozy feeling burning up his chest. “I like you too. Both of you. It’s…comfortable.”

“I feel the same,” he pauses, as though just remembering, “did you receive the gloves?”

“Gloves?”

“For the garden,” he says. “I found them and thought they’d suit you. The color. Like your Cloth.”

“Oh!” Somehow, it had never occurred to him they might have been bought by Saga, of the two of them with that intent. But his heart jumps, leaps. He rubs a thumb against the palm of his hand. 

Soft hands. 

Soft hands, from Saga’s gift of gloves. 

“I’ve been using them. Thank you,” he says, and he’s not sure if his smile comes across in his voice, if he can even put into his tone the sudden bursting inside his ribs. “I’ll make good use of them. They’re perfect.”

“Right now,” Saga says, holding him ever-so-slightly tighter, “a lot of things are.”

He lifts his head off Saga’s chest, rubs at the hot flush on his cheek where the blood has begun to bloom under the surface, and sinks into one of the cool pillows. 

“Goodnight, Shun.”

“Goodnight. Saga.”

It feels intimate, to call him by his name. But perfect. Comfortable. A mutual exchange between them, of parting words, of names, names as said by a lover.

And then, all he’s left with is the deafening sound of the dark, and nothing more.

He smiles to himself and pulls up the bedcovers. Behind his eyelids, his vision dances with stars, and his dizzy head sends up predictions, imaginings of the training to come tomorrow morning in the Sal garden with Shaka, imaginings of slipping on his garden gloves to prune the roses, to offer up a bouquet of orchids to Saga and call him by his name.

On that thought, he settles comfortably between them, Saga on his right, and Aphrodite on his left, and slips into a dream, one where everything is warm and dark and sweet.


End file.
